


Sherlocks' Fifty Shades (Well, technically 64)

by sadistically_sweet



Series: The Adventures of 'Little' Sherlock and 'Daddy' John. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Bratting, Cleaning, Daddy Kink, Espionage, Johnisn'tputtingupwithSherlocks'shit, M/M, Pouting, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John really needs to learn how to keep on his toes when 'Little' Sherlock shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlocks' Fifty Shades (Well, technically 64)

"You have a detestable sense of humour, John."

"What, you don't like it?" John replied in mock devastation.

Sherlock continued to stare daggers at the offending item, currently being held at arms’ length, between two fingers.

"Daddies are supposed to help teach their little boys', aren't they?" He stifled a laugh.

The other man ticked his look of disgust over at John. "Oh, hardy-har- _har_...a coloring book on the solar system???" he sneered.

"And a large variety of crayons to go with it, yes." John simply beamed back at him.

Sherlock snorted and flung the thin little book onto the desk before turning back to the window. "Hilarious, John...hilarious."

He'd been staring out that window for hours, now, since their last case had ended. This one had lasted a solid month, which would normally have been a dream for Sherlock, but this one....this one had sent him through the ringer. They'd both barely had a chance to breathe deeply the entire time, let alone gotten a chance for Sherlock to 'play'.

The toll of the mounting tension and stress was obvious; the man was strung tighter than the strings on his violin.

Well, Daddy was going to fix that.

John tutted and walked over to pick up the discarded activity book. “Now, now…” he said, straightening the pages and stepping over to the obviously cranky detective.

“You know what happens if you can’t play nicely, don’t you?” He kept his voice low and steady as he put a hand on the small of Sherlocks’ back.

A bit of the tension that held the man taught eased off at the touch, and his shoulders drooped a little.

“…Yes, Daddy,” came the small-sounding reply.

“What happens then, hm?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

“Sherlock…” a hint of a warning.

Now in ‘little’ mode, the man-boy crossed his arms and hung his head, turning it slightly to peer over at John.

“I get a time-out,” he pouted.

“That’s right,” John said, reaching over and tilting his boys’ chin up to look at him fully. “Now, is Daddy going to have to put you in the corner, or can you sit nicely and colour your new book while I read for a bit?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and for a split second, there was a glimmer of…something, but it was gone before John could put his finger on it.

“Noooo, Daddy…I’ll be nice!”

John smiled and patted his cheek. “Good boy!”

That in turn got a small, shy smile from the boy as he took John’s hand and let him direct him to a spot in front of the sofa.

Placing the colouring book and crayons on the floor, John laid out the ground rules. “Alright, you sit right here and colour while Daddy reads…and you do _not_ leave my sight, understand?”

Sherlock plopped down and grinned up at him. “Uh-huh!”

John chuckled and ruffled his boys’ hair. He stood, grabbing the newest dodgy spy-thriller paperback that he’d picked up at the cornershop.

Sherlock glanced up from dumping the entire box of crayons onto the floor-

_‘Pick your battles, John…’_

-and raised an eyebrow at the title.

‘Big’ Sherlock would have had a snarky comment for Johns’ reading selection…‘little’ Sherlock had been broken of that nasty little habit early on.

And it had only taken two bars of soap to do it.

John laid on the couch and stretched, letting out a sigh; he’d completely forgotten how damned _good_ it felt not to be on your feet, or crammed into one of those plastic chairs in Lestrades’ office.

He cracked open his book and picked up where he’d left off; the Bond-esque knockoff just saved some arse-named woman, and she was about to ‘repay his kindness’…

Always Johns’ favorite part.

Every so often, he’d glance at his little genius, who was now furiously scribbling on Pluto, using every shade of blue to get the texture right.

John did a double-take…didn’t they decide that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore?

How _old_ is that book???

Oh, well…as long as it kept you-know-who occupied...he went back to his own book.

***

He doesn’t even _remember_ his eyes feeling heavy. But the next thing he knew, his book was lying on his chest and a quick glance at his watch informed him that he’s been out cold for an hour and a half.

_‘Aw, bollocks_ ,’ he thought, yawning and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. _‘I bet Sherlock’s finished the whole book by now…’_

…Sherlock.

There were no sounds of scribbling anymore; the room was silent.

_‘…Shit.’_

He risked a glance over at the previously occupied spot through his fingers, already knowing what he would find.

The colouring book was still there; still open on Pluto-which wasn’t even _finished_ -but the crayons, along with a certain detective, were gone.

A snort escaped him, and he sat up slowly.

_‘So, it’s this game he wants, is it? Wants a punishment...must be more wound up than I thought.’_

‘Little’ Sherlock, John had learned, had a really bad habit of turning into a HUGE brat when he needed _special_ attention…attention that usually ended in tears, sobbed apologies, and lots of holding afterwards.

Well, ok….honestly, that wasn’t much different from ‘big’ Sherlock.

Sighing, he pulled himself up off the couch, and went to find his little troublemaker.

He just hoped the damage (and he was 100% certain that there would be) wasn’t _too_ bad.

Sherlock obviously wasn’t in the sitting room, and from where John stood, he wasn’t in the kitchen, either.

That left upstairs.

_‘Oh, if he even **touched** my room…’_

He made his way up the stairs as silently as possible, and a quick survey of his room showed it to be Sherlock-free.

As did the toilet room.

Only one room left.

Sherlocks’ door was shut tightly, but it was hard to miss the light seeping out from underneath.

John turned the knob slowly, and eased the door open.

But it was a wasted effort; he could have flung the door open and troll-stomped his way inside, and he still would not have been noticed…Sherlock was completely and utterly focused on the task at hand.

Which, apparently, was recreating the solar system on the right corner wall of his room.

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back to John, surrounded by broken crayons and their peeled wrappers; the man himself covered in smudges of brightly coloured wax.

Since Sherlock was so engrossed in his project, John took a moment to take in the whole scene.

It truly was a masterpiece; each planet on scale, as well as proper alignment and position, and the colours…John didn’t even realize you could create so many different shades with an ordinary box.

Well, it was the big 64-count box, but still…there were that many shades on Mercury alone.

Tsk…it was a shame he had to be punished for it.

Sherlock was reaching with a wax-encrusted thumb to blend one of Saturns’ rings a bit more, when John crossed his arms, stretched to his full height, put on his ‘Dad’ face, and cleared his throat.

“Ah- _ **hum**_!”

Sherlock must’ve _really_ been absorbed in his work, because he jumped a mile out of his skin before whipping around to look at John, his mouth a perfectly round ‘O’ of surprise.

_‘Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’tlaughdon’tlaughdon’tlaugh…’_

John narrowed his eyes. When he was positive that he wouldn’t crack up, he finally spoke.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing, young man?”

Sherlock looked down at the floor, ashamedly, before putting a finger to his lips and peering up at John, wide-eyed and innocent.

“But that’s Saturn, Daddy…I already finished Earth!”

‘…’

And the little shit said it with a straight face, too!

Well, thank God for years of being a card shark in his glory days; John had quite the expert poker face.

…Ok, so he _did_ have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from spreading.

But only a bit.

“What was the one rule with those crayons, hm?” he asked tersely, glaring down at the giant attention-seeker.

_‘He’s certainly got my attention, alright…’_

Sherlock saw that his little attempt at humour failed, and began to sulk. “To stay where you could see me,” he said, dourly.

“That’s right…!” John began.

“But you had your eyes closed, Daddy!” Sherlock interrupted. “You couldn’t see me anyway!”

…Damn, but he did have a point.

But, as John picked up early on…you had to stay one step ahead of ‘precocious children’.

“What do the words ‘sit right here’ mean, little boy??” he snapped, voice raising a touch.

The corners of Sherlocks’ mouth turned down, and his eyes began to shine over with tears.

He _hated_ being snapped at.

“Oh, no…don’t start sniveling now; you _knew_ exactly what you were doing. And it’s not just about that; regardless if you had stayed downstairs or not, you know better than to colour on the _walls_!”

Sherlocks’ bottom lip wobbled dangerously. “But,” he sniffled. “But you said you wanted me to learn the planets!”

Johns’ hands went to his hips. “And you couldn’t do that from looking at the pictures? You had to make a mess of Nanas’ wall?”

Mrs. Hudson was _not_ their housekeeper, no…but she certainly had no problem becoming ‘Nana’ after the nerve-wracking day she’d walked in on John spoon-feeding Sherlock.

Honestly, it hadn’t even taken that much explaining before she fluttered her hands at their awkward attempts and said “Yes, yes, don’t worry about all that, dears’…now, how can Nana help?” all without even batting an eyelash.

In any case, Sherlock looked back at the wall; then back up at John. “But, I can learn faster if they’re on my wall, so I can see them at night!” he whinged.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out a puff of air, the humour of the situation dissolving. The man always had an answer for everything, and the boy was no different. “Then we could have tacked the pages on the wall, Sherly!”

“Those are too small!” Sherlock pounded his fists on his thighs for emphasis. A bad sign.

Another minute and John could have a full scale, kicking and screaming tantrum on his hands.

Unfortunately, that’s to be expected when Sherlock gets this enveloped in a case…all the frustration and annoyance builds and builds until the man can let his carefully guarded wall down.

John crouched down to his boys’ level and took his chin in hand. “Then Daddy could have gotten you a big piece of butcher paper to draw on…there is _no_ excuse whatsoever for this, Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock simply stared at him for a moment, before his entire face crumbled and he jerked out of Johns’ hand, shouting “ _ **NO!**_ ”

Damn…that’s what he’d been afraid of.

John stood quickly, trying to dodge long, flailing limbs as Sherlock threw himself onto his back, kicking and wailing “ _No No No No No NO_!” over and over.

This…this was going to require a bit of assistance.

John stepped back out of the room and shut the door, leaving the brat to have his hissy.

He made his way downstairs and out of the flat, coming up to Mrs. Hudsons’ door. Before he could even lift his hand to knock, though, the door opened wide and there she was, grasping the front of her dressing gown, face full of sympathy. “Had another tough one, did he?” she asked, a small, sad smile on her lips.

John heaved another sigh and gave a strained smile back. He looked up at the ceiling, where even two floors down, you could still hear muffled thumps and wailing. “How could you tell?”

She clucked her tongue. “Poor thing; acts like nothing bothers him, until he’s about to break. But at least it’s not the drugs anymore, not when he’s got you to take care of him.” Her smile warmed, and she patted John on the shoulder.

John chuckled. “Even when he doesn’t like it. Speaking of, could I trouble you for-"

Still smiling, she thrust out the long-handled wooden spoon she’d been holding behind her back.

“Mrs. Hudson…you are a treasure.”

It was her turn to giggle. “I knew it was going to be a bad one the minute he stepped out of the cab and stalked upstairs, dear.”

He took the spoon from her and turned towards the steps. “You’ve no idea…thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

She leaned out into the hallway and called after him. "I would say ‘try not to be too hard on him’, but, well…we both know he needs it. Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight, ‘Nana’,” he called back, heading back up to the flat.

By the time he’d gotten back to Sherlocks’ bedroom, the banging and shouting had diminished slightly, since it had no audience to feed off of.

John stuck the spoon into his back pocket and eased the door open.

Sherlock was lying face down on the floor, arms out in front, fists still thumping weakly to a muffled chant of ‘No’ and ‘Don’t want to’.

Between the body-shaking sobs and hiccups, John wondered if he was even going to need the spoon or not.

He kneeled down next to the shaky form on the floor, and gently laid a hand on his back. “Sherlock?”

The fists stopped pounding, but remained curled into fists.

“Sherlock,” he tried again, keeping his voice even. “Look at me.”

At first, it looked like Sherlock was just going to ignore him, but as he opened his mouth to try again with a firmer tone, the sweaty mass of curls turned to the side, and allowed one red-rimmed eye to peer up at him.

John leaned down. “Are you quite done, now?”

The curls sniffled, then shook from side to side. “No!” it said, before turning back into the carpet.

“O- _kay_ ,” John said, sitting upright and reaching for the spoon. “If you won’t sit up and talk to Daddy, then you can lay there and talk to Nanas’ spoon.” And with that, he thwacked Sherlocks’ upturned backside twice, sharply.

The detective yelped and rolled over quickly, reaching back with one hand to rub his smarting bottom and looking at John with wide eyes and mouth agape.

John pointed at him with the spoon. “Now that I’ve got your attention, boy, you’d better listen, and listen well; your behavior has been _atrocious_ , and the little fit you just had didn’t help your case!”

The scolding brought a fresh wave of tears; big, fat ones’ rolled over colour-smudged cheeks and dripped off his chin as he listened to Daddy fuss, bottom lip quivering.

“No matter _what_ your reason was, you knew you were supposed to stay right where I put you, and you certainly knew that this-" he gestured to the waxen mural,"-was _NOT_ okay!”

Sherlocks’ face crumpled once again as a sob escaped his throat, and he went to bury himself back into the carpet. “Ah-ah-ah!” John caught his shoulder and held him in place firmly. “You _will_ sit up and look at Daddy when he talks to you!”

A pitiful whine worked its’ way out of the boys’ throat, but he let John move him into a sitting position.

“Sit there and tell me why, hm? Why did you do it, even when you knew you would get into trouble?”

Sherlock began wiping tears away with the heel of his hand as he mumbled something.

“We’ve been over this, young man…look at me and say it where I can hear it,” John said, still in his ‘no-nonsense’ manner.

Still, even in his ‘submissive’ role, Sherlock made him work for it.

“I _don’t know_ , Daddy!” he wailed.

“Well, if I had to take a wild guess, I’d say you just wanted to find out what would happen…didn’t you?”

The consulting ‘toddler’ looked down and put his finger back to his mouth.

“But you already know what’s going to happen, yeah?”

He peered up at John through long eyelashes, head still bowed.

“You’re getting that naughty little bottom smacked.”

“Noooo, Daddy, _please_!” Sherlock begged.

John stood. “Don’t even start with that noise again. If you hadn’t thrown such a fit, I might have just swatted you and put you in the naughty corner, think about that!”

Sherlock stayed sitting in the floor, scrubbing at his eyes and whinging.

"C’mon, stand up.”

The brat ignored him.

“Stand. Up.” John said again, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

Sherlock tried one last time to get out of it…looking up at John, doe-eyed and pleading, fingers back at his mouth. “Please, Daddy…I’m saw- _ree_ ,” he said in a small, pitiful little voice.

_‘Son of a BITCH…he could be so fucking cute.’_

John steeled himself. Narrowing his eyes, he said it once again.

“Stand. UP.”

The sweet, pleading expression on his boys’ face darkened instantly as he realized his ruse wasn’t going to work; then again, he knew that John knew all about his little theatrics…it’s just that it didn’t stop him from trying.

“Sherlock _Sherringford_ Holmes…!”

Sherlock crossed his arms with a ‘ _Huff_!’ and gave John a glare that clearly said ‘Make me’.

“I’m going to count to three…” That usually did the trick.

“One…” He didn’t even move.

“Two…” Not even a blink.

“Three!” Sherlock locked eyes with him, and promptly stuck out his tongue.

“ _Oi_!” John snapped indignantly. That was a first!

He stuck the spoon back into his pocket (he had a feeling he was going to need both hands for this) and stepped over towards the little shit. “That’s _it_!” he seethed.

Something in Johns’ voice must have told Sherlock that he’d gone a touch too far; his petulant little expression fell apart and a worried one took its’ place as he threw himself back onto the floor and put his hands out to ward off his _very_ angry Daddy.

“Nononononono, Daddy, please, I’m sorry!” he pleaded as John loomed over him and reached down.

There was quite a struggle, and though the lanky troublemaker put up a valiant effort, the former soldier bravely fought his way through the tangle of long limbs and managed to grab ahold of Sherlock around the waist (with his good arm) and hoisted the flailing mess up off the floor, balancing him on one hip, facing backwards, backside completely at Johns’ mercy.

“Wait, Daddy, no! Please don’t!” Sherlock was in full panic now, frantically trying to reach back and cover his seat, but with John in the way, even his insanely long arms weren’t quite long enough.

John, meanwhile, was just about at the end of his rope. He should have known better than to give this devious little snot anything that could even sort-of-possibly-maybe be destructive when he was in one of these ‘moods’, especially with him practically begging for some kind of discipline…but this much of a fight was _ridiculous_. Even by Sherlockian-standards.

Any other time, and the spectacle the two of them made in this position would have been hilarious, though.

He retrieved the spoon out of his back pocket quickly, before (God forbid) the brat thought to snatch it, and whacked it against the still struggling form. “Settle down, _now_!”

The last thing he wanted to do was drop him, after all.

There was a sharp yelp and then the wriggling ceased; Sherlocks’ feet finally touched ground again and took a bit of pressure off Johns’ shoulder.

“Now,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “I’m going to stand you up, you’re going to take down your pants and trousers, and then I’m going to spank you.”

“ _Noooo_ …!” It seems that the boy was stuck on ‘repeat’ tonight.

John cut him off with another brisk smack; there was another yelp, and then a bout of sniffling.

“As I was _saying_ …if you try and run off, or start any of that shrieking mess again, you’re going right back under my arm for a smacking until you decide to obey Daddy, and then we start your _real_ spanking; is that clear?”

There was a heavy sob, and John whacked the spoon across trouser-clad cheeks once more, for emphasis. “I said, is that _clear_???”

“ _Oww-wuh_! Ye-es, yes sir!”

Satisfied, John slowly let Sherlock up onto his feet, helping him keep steady.

Ruddy-faced and sniveling, Sherlock stood on wobbly legs, hands going straight back to his bottom, any sign of defiance dissipated.

In all honesty, John really did feel _awful_ when he had to be this forceful; just looking at that tear-streaked face made him want to gather the detective up and cuddle him, patting his back and saying that all was forgiven.

But if he did that, and nixed the rest of the punishment…Sherlock would raise bloody hell for _weeks_ , and John would wind up spanking him for something else anyway.

Really best to go ahead and get it over and done with.

He crossed his arms, waiting. “Well, go on…what did I tell you to do?”

Sherlocks’ chest heaved and he opened his mouth to beg for leniency, just one more time.

John cocked an eyebrow, and gave his best steely gaze; one that had the biggest and baddest of soldiers quaking in their boots.

He hadn’t been Captain for nothing.

Sherlock shut his mouth and whimpered.

“Don’t make me come over there and do it for you…you won’t enjoy that.”

That being said, Sherlock finally conceded, and the battle was Johns’. The slump of his shoulders confirmed it as Sherlock went to unbutton his trousers with trembling hands.

A few fumbling seconds later, and there was a pool of expensive fabric at his feet as Sherlock stood in the middle of the room in nothing but his shirt and pants, looking quite helpless. His hands were at the little strip of elastic at this waist, and he looked back to John imploringly.

“…D-do I have to, Daddy?” came the small, tear-soaked plea.

Johns’ throat clenched, and he could feel his stern façade slip.

He swallowed, trying to loosen the knot that had formed. When that didn’t work, he simply nodded.

Sherlock sobbed and hiccupped, but he obediently (for once) hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and they soon joined the trousers ‘round his ankles.

His hands immediately flew to cover his front, which John already knew was completely flaccid…it just wasn’t that kind of day.

John stepped up to him, and as per ritual, took Sherlocks’ chin in his hand and tilted it until the overgrown boy met his gaze. Once he did, John set the wheels in motion.

“Why-" The rest of his words stuck in his throat, and he swallowed hard again to try and clear it.

Success. “Why is Daddy about to spank you?”

Sherlocks’ face scrunched, eyes welling with fresh tears. “B-because, I didn’t listen, and I c-coloured where I wasn’t su- _sob_ -supposed to, and kicked and yelled and made awful noises and acted nasty,” he said, voice cracking.

John cupped a damp cheek and brushed a tear or two away with the pad of his thumb. “That’s right…and you know you deserve every bit of what you’re going to get.”

Another shuddering sob burst from wobbly lips, and then the tangled nest of curls nodded.

Clasping Sherlocks’ wrist, John turned and led him over to his own bed.

John sat at the foot, squarely in the middle, and went to tug the boy over his knee.

He was met with slight resistance.

Sherlock held back, eyes glued to the wooden instrument of torture in John’s hand.

“Do you…do you _have_ to use that, Daddy?” he whimpered.

‘ _Boy, do I ever_ ,’ John thought with an internal eyeroll. “Yes, obviously I do! You have been _extremely_ naughty!”

“But it _hurt_!” Sherlock whinged.

John looked at him pointedly. “Does it? Who’dve thought…?” he replied dryly, before sharply tugging on the captive wrist again.

There was a small twitch in Sherlocks’ right eye; John knew, _knew_ , that he wanted to snap back with something snarky...but, he was facing a wooden implement, bare bottomed.

He was reckless, but he was most definitely not _that_ reckless.

John slapped a bare thigh; “Quit stalling!”

Sherlock gasped and rubbed his stinging flesh.

John gave him another ‘look’, and when he tugged again, this time the boy followed and draped himself over Johns’ left thigh, upper torso resting on the bed.

Wrapping his arm around Sherlocks’ waist to keep him steady, John made one last point. “And, after we’re done here…you’re going to scrub that wall clean.”

Though he couldn’t see it, John could _feel_ the other mans’ head snap up and whip around.

_“…What?!”_

_**THWACK!** _

The backside of the spoon connected with the undercurve of Sherlocks’ backside, and any further protests dissolved into a sharp cry.

“You! Heard! Me!” John snapped, each word punctuated with a flick of his wrist, followed by an _“Ow!”_ every time wood connected with skin.

John absolutely lit into him, covering Sherlocks’ pale little bum in oval-shaped marks ranging from pink to red to crimson to almost purple.

_‘Hm…could pass for one of those planets.’_

Of all the words in the English language that could be used to describe the man (genius, dogged, stubborn, cunning, gifted, arrogant, loyal...asshole, etc.), ‘stoic’ was _not_ one of them.

John felt as if he could be in one of those American rodeos, with the way Sherlock bucked and kicked all over the place, trying anything and everything just to avoid that _damned spoon!_

And the crying, my God! It didn’t take John long to figure out that ‘little’ Sherlock could be, well…kind of a crybaby.

Could hardly blame him this time, though; holy wooden hell was being wreaked all over his poor, tender arse.

John could feel the guttural sobs rip their way out of Sherlocks’ thin frame, as well as hear them, interspersed with the occasional “Please, Da- _Ahh!_ -Daddy, stop! _Ow, ow, ow owwww-uuuhuh!_ ”

There was no keeping track of however many smacks he gave him; they’d tried that once, with Sherlock counting aloud, bent over the back of a chair, and they both agreed…it just didn’t _feel_ right. The man needed the body contact, the intimacy of being over Johns’ knee, otherwise all he felt was that he was being callously picked on.

So, John spanked until he felt certain the threshold was reached, which shouldn’t be too much longer now.

He was right; no more than two minutes later, the broken sobbing and kicking stopped and Sherlock collapsed, going limp and burying his face in the blanket with one long, pitiful howl.

John set the spoon aside and proceeded to rub small, soft circles over his boys’ trembling bottom and lower back. He said nothing, yet…he simply let him have a good cry.

He continued to rub and pet and whisper gentle consolements until the shudders and hiccupping ceased, for the most part, before asking softly, “Are you ready to sit up?”

Sherlock gave a huge sniff, and then John heard a tiny, muffled “Mm-hmm…”

Letting go of his waist in favor of helping his well-chastised boy up, John carefully aided Sherlocks’ maneuvering until he was sitting gingerly next to him.

Sherlock looked over at him, face a complete mess: red blotches splayed over his cheeks, tears still slowly leaking and making his eyelashes clump together, eyes completely bloodshot, snot dribbling from his nose…

He wiped the back of his hand across his face, further smearing everything together, before whispering one last “Sorry, Daddy,” and burying his face into the crook of Johns’ neck.

John threw his arms around frail shoulders and held them tightly. He felt hot splashes against his neck; tears or snot, he didn’t know, nor did he really care…the worst part was over.

“I know you are,” he murmured back before planting a light kiss on top of sweaty hair.

Sherlock sighed, and John knew he’d been successful…all the tension and stiffness had been drained out of the detective, leaving a very relaxed, pliable ‘Sherly’ in his place.

As always, John waited and cuddled until any leftover tears ran dry, before patting Sherlocks’ thigh. “You get down there and start gathering all those crayons and bits of paper up, and I’ll be right back.’ John stood to leave.

A hand closed around his. “Where you going, Daddy?”

He looked back at his boy, who was the poster child for wide-eyed innocence once again. "You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you? Now get down there and do what I said, please.”

The corners of his mouth turned down slightly, but Sherlock nodded and slid down to the floor, slowly. “Yes, sir.”

John stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the man that would, without hesitation, bark orders anyone within hearing radius (and some that weren’t) and have someone retrieve his phone from his _own_ pocket, as he crawled about on the floor on all fours’ with his freshly spanked bum on display, picking up trash.

_‘Tsk,’_ he thought, examining said bum. _‘That’s going to bruise up.’_

He turned and headed downstairs.

***

Sherlock had just gathered up the last crayon and was now putting them back into the box (in correct order, of course) when John returned a short time later.

When he looked up from his task and saw what his Daddy held, he froze.

“What…what’s that for?”

John grinned and strode over to the newly decorated wall, setting the steaming bowl of soapy water on the floor and holding out the scrub brush.

“You know exactly what it’s for.”

“Dadd- _eee_ , nooo!”

“Oh, no…I told you that you were going to scrub all that away, and that’s what you’re going to do, or I’m getting the spoon back out!” He reached down and took Sherlocks’ hand, placing the brush in it.

The infamous bottom lip poked out. “But do I have to, right now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, that’ll just give you enough time to think of a way around it…I’d come walk in tomorrow morning and your bookcase would be in front of it.”

Sherlock blushed and looked down.

Ah.

“See? Daddy’s not as stupid as you like to think he is.”

Sherlock started up with another bout of whinging and complaining until John walked over to his previous spot at the bed, grabbed the spoon, and sat down, watching.

The noise ended with a groan as the detective looked back and forth between the soapy water and the little piece of evil in his Daddys’ hand, weighing his options.

Sherlock heaved a dramatic, shaky sigh and looked from the wall, to the brush, and then back to John, who pointed with the spoon and said, “Get going before the water cools off and something else heats back up.”

All the colour (minus the smudges) drained out of Sherlocks’ face.

“The sooner you get started,” John continued, matter-of-factly, “The sooner we can get you into the bath and watch a movie before bedtime.”

That cinched it, as he knew it would; one of ‘little’ Sherlocks’ favorite things was to curl up with John on the couch before getting tucked in.

So, still sniffling and pouting, the now-compliant boy picked up the brush and bowl of water, and started erasing his solar odyssey.

Forty-five minutes later, after tons of sniffling and pausing to wipe his eyes or rub his bottom, or to exchange cold, black water for hot, fresh water, the wall was finally crayon-free.

Sherlock plopped the brush into the bowl and stood, stretching his back out. “All done…” he said, yawning.

John also stood from his post and came over to inspect.

As much wax as there’d been, the little monster had done a fantastic job in cleaning it.

A little too well, actually…the spot that had been scrubbed was now two shades lighter than the rest of the wall.

He had to laugh.

Sherlock lowered back down onto his knees and wrapped his arms around Johns’ legs, nuzzling his face into his hip. “Did I do good, Daddy?”

John looked down at the wax-covered, sticky, sweaty, still-tear-stained face gazing back up at him. He smiled warmly, genuinely, and ran a hand through damp, curly hair. “Yes, you did a _wonderful_ job, and I’m proud of you!”

Sherlock positively glowed at the praise and hugged his Daddy tighter, rubbing his cheek against Johns’ jumper like an overgrown cat.

John kept laughing. “C’mon, then…let’s get you in the bath before you cover me in wax, Da Vinci.”,/p>

‘Little’ Sherlock nodded and yawned again, loudly, as he stood and took Johns’ hand, letting him lead the way into the bathroom.

Once he got the taps to the right temperature and let the tub begin to fill, John turned back to his boy, who was now leaning against the doorframe, eyelids drooping.

He grinned and drew the drowsy thing into the room, shutting the door behind him.

The tub wasn’t quite full enough, so John moved the very pliable Sherlock to sit on the lid of the toilet (lightly) so he could unbutton his shirt and strip him down the rest of the way.

There was a slight moan as bruising flesh met hard porcelain, but that was the only indication of discomfort.

John went to work on the buttons; those tiny, temper-testing little numbers that all of Sherlocks’ dress shirts seemed to have hundreds of.

While he tried to make quick work of them, Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head against Johns’ shoulder (not the good one, but John didn’t mind this time).

“No bubbles?” Sherlock mumbled sleepily.

John grinned. “No, not this time, I’m afraid.”

He finished the last of the damn buttons and shucked the shirt off of Sherlocks’ shoulders.

_‘Say that three times fast,’_ he snorted to himself.

Feeling a tad guilty for disturbing his boys’ resting place, he stood and turned the taps off, testing the water to make sure it was perfect.

It was.

“Good…lets get you cleaned up, little boy.” Reaching behind him, John hooked his hands under limp arms and ‘lifted’; thankfully, Sherlock complied and stood with him, allowing John to ‘carry’ him over to the tub and help him climb in.

The warm water woke him up a bit, especially when it met an aching bottom. Sherlock hisses and arched his back, refusing to go any lower. “Too hot!” he whined at John.

“Shh, shh...I know, I know, it hurts. But it’s ok,” John murmured. “Daddy’ll fix it.”

Sherlock held onto the sides of the tub while John grabbed one of the towels and folded it into fourths, then rolled up his sleeves.

"Here,” he said, holding it against Sherlocks’ backside. “Go ahead and sit.”

He whinged, but he did as he was told; the towel _did_ help mute some of the heat as he fully immersed his lower half. And sitting on the towel was _much_ better than sitting on a hard, flat surface.

Once Sherlock was seated, John let go and began to lather up a cloth. “That,” he said, chuckling to himself, “was a little trick my mum did with me when _I_ was the naughty one before bathtime.”

Sherlock giggled. “Daddy was _naughty_??? No, never!”

Beginning with his hands, John began gently scrubbing at the wax coating Sherlocks’ fingers. “Oh, yes,” he said with a sideways grin. “I had my fair share of sore botties when I was a wee one!”

“You know how much it hurts, then, and you still do it to me!” Sherlock pouted.

“Yes, I know it hurts…badly, too. But I also know it works wonders for a rotten attitude. Close your eyes.” He went to wash Sherlocks’ face.

_‘Hmmph!’_ the man huffed through his nose as he scrunched his face at Johns’ attempt.

“Well, it calmed you down in a hurry, eh? I even got a couple of ‘yes sir’s!’”

“I suppose,” he grumbled.

John had to laugh out loud; for someone who wanted, needed, _craved_ the discipline, Sherlock could certainly play up the opposite!

“Alright,” he said, rinsing off the mans’ face. “Lean back and let me wash your hair, and we’ll be done.”

Sherlock obeyed, sliding forward and leaning back on his elbows.

John ran his fingers through the tangle of curls, wetting them thoroughly before reaching for the bottle of lavender-scented baby shampoo that Sherlock picked out weeks ago.

He squirted a small amount in the palm of his hand and gently worked it through the mans’ hair, garnering a moan from him as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the heady scent filling the room and further relaxing both men.

Needless to say, Sherlock was eating this up.

After a short silence, the only sound being the detectives’ deep, slow breathing and the water gently sloshing every time one of them shifted, John spoke.

“…You could have just asked for a spanking, you know; you don’t have to make such a fuss.” He kept his voice low. He wasn’t angry at the fact, just making a valid point.

“Mmmm…” Sherlock hummed as John massaged his temples with his fingertips. “I agree; I shouldn’t have put up a struggle. ‘Daddy’ should have put his foot down sooner.”

“Pfffft!” John made a dismissive noise. “So it’s my fault you threw a tantrum?” he asked wryly.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed. “Mm-hmm…I certainly wouldn’t have let myself get that far, John. I would have had myself over my knee the minute I started that fist pounding nonsense.”

“Oh, is that right?” He rinsed the last bit of suds out of Sherlocks’ hair. “Maybe we should let _you_ be ‘Daddy’ for a day, then?”

“Maybe so,” Sherlock opened his eyes and looked squarely at John, albeit upside-down. “Honestly, John, _asking_ for a spanking? Where’s the fun in that???”

_‘Oh, this snarky little…’_

An urge came over John just then…a terrible, awful, _wonderful_ urge.

“That whole process is ‘fun’ for you, is it?”

Sherlock actually took the time to contemplate that one. “Up to a certain point, yes, then it becomes catharsis.”

“I see, I see,” John said, in mock-seriousness.

The detective peered up at him, curiously.

Johns’ lips curled into a smile. “How about a bit more fun?”

Sherlock was the one to narrow his eyes this time, regarding John with suspicion.

“Don’t you dare-"was all he managed to get out...

And then John promptly shoved his head underwater.

Legs and arms kicked out, splashing water all over the floor as John immediately released him and stepped out of reach.

The man shot up, sputtering and choking and wiping water out of his eyes as John backed up towards the door, giggling hysterically.

Once he got his breath back, Sherlock spun around to face the doctor. “ _Jawwwwn…!_ ” he spat venomously.

John simply grinned, flashing all his teeth in a Cheshire cat-like way.

“Tsk,” he clucked his tongue in imitation of Mrs. Hudson and held out a dry towel to his sodden companion, who snatched it from him. “I thought you just said you liked a bit of fun?”

“Not at _my_ expense!” was the scathing response.

"Aw, that’s too bad…I found it hilarious.” He opened the door and started to step out. “Dry yourself off and find your pajamas…be downstairs in ten minutes, and Daddy’ll let you pick out the movie!”

He was out the door and bounding down the steps, whistling and ignoring the curses being shouted at him.

Oh, there would be repercussions, he knew...Sherlock wasn’t going to forget this one any time soon.

But he had to admit, the man was right.

Being a brat was _fun_.

**Author's Note:**

> How in Gods' green smurf do I take a simple image (in this case, a tearful Sherlock on his knees, rubbing his bottom next to crayon scribblings' on the wall) and turn it into a 6000+ word story? >.


End file.
